The woman didn't utter a single word. Her eyes were as sharp and unyielding as razor blades slicing through ice. Without breaking eye contact, her fingers slipped inside the inner pocket of her jacket and pulled out a worn, scuffed black leather case. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped it open right in front of Marcus’s face with decisive finality.
A heavy gold shield gleamed brilliantly under the harsh glow of the streetlights, catching the morning frost.
"FBI," she said smoothly, her voice dangerously low. "I need immediate access to the perimeter coordinator."
Marcus burst into a loud, arrogant laugh that echoed off the brick walls of the empty avenue. He didn't look at the credentials; instead, he reached out and rudely snatched the leather case right out of her hand, holding it high up in the air like a cheap carnival prize to show off to the nearby local patrol officers.
"Boys, look at what we have here!" Marcus shouted, turning the badge over carelessly in his fingers. "She says she’s federal! Real agents don't look like they just rolled out of a dumpster behind a thrift store. What’s your rank, sweetheart? Special Agent in Charge of a washing machine?"
The surrounding local officers erupted into loud, crude laughter, feeding off their sergeant's toxic bravado. Off to the left, a junior officer smirked, stealthily pulling out his department-issued smartphone to record the entire humiliating spectacle.
The woman didn't blink. Her expression remained completely frozen in a terrifying stillness.